Punch
by teethlikedog
Summary: He's never quite fitted in with family traditions. [Thomas gen]


The Schubaltz family has always seemed to me like the sort that would be into physical training from a young age, hence this scrap of...something. I'm guesstimating a five year gap between the brothers, but if anyone can give me the facts on that score, that'd be great. Thomas is eight or nine here, and Karl's thirteen or fourteen.

_**Punch**_

"Not scared, are you?"

Thomas looked up and saw the smirk stretched across his brother's face. Karl was teasing him.

"I'm not scared!" he almost yelled, annoyed and embarrassed that his big brother had noticed him hesitating, hanging back.

"Good," said Karl, and led the way in.

Surely it couldn't matter that Thomas walked behind Karl on the way into the gymnasium. It was his first time here, after all, and he didn't know where he was going. It was only natural that he should follow his brother, who knew his way around, the way to the changing rooms and the boxing ring and everything else. Thomas hefted his bag nervously, unused to the bulk on his shoulder, while Karl carried his as if he'd been born with it on his back. Practice, Thomas supposed, though he wished that Father hadn't decided on _today_ as the perfect first day for him to learn about boxing.

The corridors had tiled floors, black and white, and greyish-blue paint on the walls, peeling a bit. Their footsteps rang off the tiles, Thomas' slightly faster than Karl's as he hurried to keep pace with his brother's longer legs. A group of boys, older, maybe Karl's age, jostled past, laughing and talking loudly, their echoes trailing along behind them down the passage. Thomas suddenly felt terribly small.

Karl kept talking as he walked along, telling Thomas things that he wasn't listening to and probably wouldn't remember anyway. Finally he stopped walking and pushed open a door.

"This is the changing room," he explained, going inside. Thomas followed him slowly, looking around at the lockers, the benches, the showers. There were more boys in here, a few of them around Thomas' age but most of them older. Several of them greeted Karl, clapped him on the shoulder, looked at Thomas when Karl jerked a thumb in his direction, explaining who he was. One or two grinned and waved, but most glanced at him without much interest. He stayed standing near the door, not sure what to do.

"Come on," Karl said impatiently. "Don't just _stand _there."

He looked annoyed for a second, then vaguely guilty as his big brother instincts kicked in. He smiled, sort of apologetic and sort of sympathetic.

"Look, I know it's a bit intimidating when you're not used to it. I was younger than you when I first came here, you know."

Thomas _did_ know, but that wasn't really a comfort. He would bet anything that Karl had fitted in perfectly the second he'd arrived, had walked in through the doors and acted like he'd been here for years. Because Karl always knew what he was doing, was never scared of anything. And anyway, it wasn't as if Thomas had wanted to come here in the first place - not _today_, not when he'd almost got that broken computer working again, just needed a couple more hours to work the bugs out of the operating system.

He'd explained that, of course, and Father had looked stern - not angry, just determined - and told him that he could go back to tinkering with that old computer when he got home, because this was _important_. It was what the Schubaltz men _did_. It would be good for him; a healthy mind in a healthy body, after all. Thomas knew all that, knew what this meant and what was expected of him. He didn't know _why_ it was so important, but he knew that asking would annoy Father; those sorts of questions always seemed to, for some reason, but often Thomas couldn't help asking them anyway.

This time, though, he hadn't, and even if he had it wouldn't have made any difference, he would still have ended up here. When Father had that stern look there was no point arguing with him, because you'd end up doing what he wanted in the end anyway.

Besides, it had been nice to see Father looking so pleased and proud, smiling and reminding him that it was lucky to get blooded on your first day of training. It had given Thomas a sort of warm glow all up and down, and even though he still didn't understand why this was important to Father, it was important to _him_ because it made Father proud like that, the way that fixing a broken computer wouldn't.

He _would _make Father proud. He wouldn't act like a scared little kid, hiding behind his big brother.

Thomas walked over to a free spot on one of the benches and slung his bag down, sat beside it and started taking off his shoes. Karl, across the room, gave him an approving grin.

The changing rooms were cold; the hall Karl led Thomas into when they had changed was even colder. Thomas shivered in his singlet and trunks, feeling every draught that swept in through the swinging doors, the high-set windows. He envied Karl, who didn't seem to notice the cold at all, and wondered how long he'd have to come here before he got used to it.

There were six boxing rings set up around the hall, with singlet-and-trunk clad boys gathered around them, some chattering and pushing, some listening to the instructors, who all wore whistles. It seemed awfully noisy, and awfully crowded, and Thomas stared around at it all until Karl punched him lightly on the arm.

"You're over there, with the beginners," he made a clumsy pointing gesture, his hand almost like a lobster's claw in the boxing glove, but Thomas saw where he was pointing at. The boys there looked mostly his age or a little older, a few of them shuffling nervously, maybe here for the first time like him.

"And I'll be over there," Karl told him, pointing at another of the boxing rings. "Good luck," he said then, and jogged off.

Thomas walked over to the ring that Karl had pointed out, feeling awkward and unbalanced in his gloves and padded helmet. A man in a jogging suit was talking to the group of boys; he was wearing a whistle so he must be an instructor. As Thomas joined the back of the group the man's eyes fell on him.

"You!" he called. "What's your name?"

"Thomas Schubaltz," he said, too startled for anything but an automatic answer.

"Another Schubaltz,is it? Well if you're half as good as that brother of yours, you won't be in the beginner class for long."

Thomas felt a swelling of pride at hearing how good Karl was, at being compared with him like that. He didn't think he'd ever be as good at this as Karl was, but maybe he could be _half_ as good.

"All right," said the instructor, who Thomas quickly learned was called Coach Hesse. "How many new faces do we have today?"

Thomas raised his hand, as did three other boys.

"We have a little tradition here, for new students," Coach Hesse said, drawing the four of them up alongside him. "In the beginner class, you learn all about the basics of boxing, the way to defend yourself, the types of blow and the footwork to use. But on your first day you get to do a little sparring, just to let you know what you're here for. So why don't you two go first?"

He picked out two of the other beginners, checked their helmets and gloves, shoved gum shields into their mouths and then hustled them into the ring, where they stood eyeing each other nervously. There was a small bell at one corner of the ring, which Coach Hesse rang to start the bout; why did the instructors wear those whistles, Thomas wondered, if they used the bells? Another one of those questions that would probably annoy someone if he asked it.

The bout lasted only a few minutes, and nothing really happened. The two boys kept a cautious distance from each other, neither having any idea how to go about attacking or defending, just wanting to get this over without embarrassment. Occasionally one or the other would make a halfhearted jab, but none of the weak blows struck home, and when Coach Hesse rang the bell again both competitors were untouched.

"Okay," said Coach Hesse, helping one of them disentangle himself from the ropes, where he'd got caught trying to climb out. "Hopefully by the next time you go in the ring, you'll have learned to hit more than air. Now, you two."

Thomas climbed into the ring trembling, and not from the cold. His hands felt useless in those bulky gloves, the padded helmet kept slipping over his eyes and the gum shield felt strange in his mouth. He couldn't do this. He didn't want to be here, he wanted to be at home, wanted to be working on that broken computer, something he understood, something he was _good_ at. The only good thing here was that his opponent, a pale, chubby boy, looked just as nervous as Thomas felt.

The bell rang, and Thomas turned to jelly. He could hear the other boys in the group shouting encouragement from a million miles away, could see his opponent blinking anxiously at him, raising his gloves in a clumsy imitation of a guard position. All Thomas wanted at that moment was to climb back out of the ring.

And then he thought of Coach Hesse's words, _if you're half as good as that brother of yours_, and how he'd felt when he heard them. He couldn't be a coward, couldn't let down Father and Karl, couldn't ignore the importance of this thing even though he didn't understand it. Thomas raised his hands and stepped forward, determined that he could get at least one hit in, to show that he was worth all that was expected of him. The chubby boy was right in front of him, still trying to guard, still looking scared, and Thomas didn't think anymore, just pulled back his arm and swung.

And missed.

And the chubby boy, in some purely instinctive reaction, lashed out with a gloved fist and landed a punch right on Thomas' unprotected nose. He went reeling back, more in shock than because of the force of the blow, and bounced against the ropes. Pain went shooting through his face, spreading out from the centre of pure agony that was his nose. The noise of the hall was distant, muffled, but Thomas could hear a steady dripping, the sound clear and loud in his ears. Looking down, he saw a small, spreading pool of red on the canvas, saw the drops of blood falling, hitting the pool with a tiny splash.

Realisation hit.

Thomas howled, loud enough that everyone in the hall turned around to see what was going on.

Then he burst into tears.

He didn't want to, tried desperately to force down the sobs that wrenched at his rib cage, to hold back the wetness that rimmed his eyes, but it was useless. He was hurt, and scared, and all he'd wanted to do today was fix the computer, and the sobs escaped in rhythmic jolts as the tears went streaming down his face, splashing on the canvas with his blood. He was crying and crying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Coach Hesse pulled him to his feet and out of the ring, took off his helmet and gloves, cajoled and threatened in an effort to make him stop, but Thomas hardly heard him. The other boys in the beginner class stared at him; the chubby boy shuffled his feet and muttered that it wasn't his fault; a hundred years passed and eventually the sobs began to die away, the flow of tears slowing to a trickle. Someone handed Thomas an ice pack and he held it against his face, sniffling into the cold plastic.

By the time the worst of it was over, most of the rest of the hall had lost interest or had been prodded back to work by their instructors. But looking up and across the hall, blinking his eyes clear, Thomas could see Karl was still looking at him, could see the disappointment painted on his brother's face, and his vision blurred over again.

Thomas' first time was quite obviously over, but the classes weren't finished yet, so he sat in the changing room with the ice pack on his throbbing nose, listening to the noise from the hall. The cold felt good, and he wondered if it would freeze the blood solid so it would stop dripping. Certainly the bleeding stopped a while after he held the pack to it, so maybe that was how it worked. When the worst of the pain was numbed, he put the pack down and got dressed, wincing when the neck of his shirt slid across his nose. He picked the ice pack up again; it was already turning into slush, but it was still cold so he held it against his nose again.

A while later, the doors swung open and the boys came back in, talking and laughing, sweaty and exhausted and a little battered, but all in good temper, stripping off _en route_ to the showers. Karl appeared in their midst but didn't head towards the showers, simply changed his clothes quickly.

"Let's go," he said, and Thomas dropped the ice pack, grabbed his bag and followed his brother out. He wanted to say thanks to Karl for not showering, for not making Thomas sit there in front of the other boys with his ice pack and his bloody nose and the tear stains still on his face. Except he didn't think he could make it come out right, and he didn't think Karl wanted to hear it anyway, so he just followed silently.

The car was waiting outside to pick them up. They got in, and Karl turned to Thomas, spoke in a low voice.

"We don't need to tell Father about, well, what happened. All right?"

Thomas nodded, relieved. He didn't want Father to know that he'd acted like a little kid on his first day, that he wasn't good at this important thing - that he didn't even understand why it was important. He just wanted to go home, and tell Father it had all gone well, and then go and finish fixing the computer. He might even have it running before dinner.

"All right," Karl repeated, and for a second he looked very serious, almost like Father when he was being stern. Then he smiled a little, and reached across to ruffle Thomas' hair.

"You know, it's good luck to get blooded on your first day."

Thomas knew it was, though he didn't know why. And he didn't ask.

* * *

_I do love Thomas, I swear. I just show it by hurting him. C&C would be very much appreciated, since I'm lacking experience with these characters. Also, if anyone can point me in the direction of a nice, active Zoids discussion group (preferrably fanfic-friendly), I'd be all sorts of grateful._


End file.
